


Strange Omens

by Tophat_gay



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies at first sight, Enemies to Friends, Established Relationship, Existential Crisis, Explicit Language, Fluff and Angst, Hatred, Insults, Light Angst, M/M, Mild Language, Original Character(s), Post-Apocalypse, Snogging, just a bit though, the ducks know what's up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26092366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tophat_gay/pseuds/Tophat_gay
Summary: It's been one week sinse the failed Apocalypse, and Aziraphale and Crowley are carrying on with their lives. Until two new arrivals come to Earth to deliver them some much needed news.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 10





	1. Old Game, New Players

It was one week after the Apocalypse, or more appropriately, the Apocalypse-that-wasn't -shortened to the Apocawasn't for simplicity- and after 6,000 years of dancing around the subject, the Principality Aziraphale and the Demon Crowley, had finally gotten their shit together, so to speak, and confessed their love for each other.

It was the night after the fooling of Heaven and He'll, and their dinner at the Ritz. The dinner had been splendid as usual, made even more so by the fact that it was the most relaxed Crowley and Aziraphale had ever been, around each other and otherwise. No more worrying that they were being watched. No more of feeling the need to be as discrete as possible when in public. No more fear that their respective Head Offices would find out about their relationship or the Arrangement and destroy them. No more hiding, no more secrets, no more fear.

It was exhilarating.

Dinner at the Ritz had then bled into drinks at the bookshop as it always did, where the angel looked around to see that everything was in order after Adam had restored it. The boy had done a surprisingly good job, except for the new additions that weren't there before, but Aziraphale didn't seem to mind.

After the inspection, Aziraphale and Crowley sat down on the leather couch in the backroom with their alcohol of choice and proceeded to drink themselves silly. 

They were about four bottles or more deep into their wine when it happened. Crowley was prattling on about some film he thought they should see, when Aziraphale put a finger to the demon's lips, quieting him, and told him that he was madly and wildly in love with him.

Crowley had nearly dropped his wine, and if he had been drinking any he would have spat it everywhere. The demon then requested that they sober up immediately, which Aziraphale agreed to. Once sober, Aziraphale told Crowley again that he was in love with him, and everything escalated from there.

There and been a lot of kissing, and hugging, and crying, more kissing, and garbled 'I love you's' and 'I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner' 'I was afraid' 'I couldn't risk your safety' and so on.

Crowley had then fallen asleep with Aziraphale in the literal sense in his bed above the bookshop, where they stayed for two days.

Fast forward to the present, Aziraphale is currently reorganizing the bookshop to annoy customers, while Crowley is at his Mayfair flat watering his plants, thinking about how lucky he is when he hears the shop door ring.

"We're closed!" He calls. _I swear I locked that door._

Instead of the expected apology of, 'I'm sorry I didn't see the sign have good day' he hears the door close and the sound of someone walking in a few paces. Aziraphale sets down the books he is holding with a huff and goes to investigate.

"Didn't you hear me? I said we're closed-" standing just inside the doorway is an angel. An angel that he knows.

"Aziraphale." He says distastefully.

Aziraphale tries not to look as terrified as he feels, drawing himself up imperiously but he can't help but stutter. "P- power Zarathustra."

Zarathustra just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed, then walks towards Aziraphale, who backs up involuntarily into the front counter. "What are you doing here?" He demands in a hard voice.

Zarathustra stops in front of him and picks a piece of lint off his light blue suit jacket. "I'm not going to hurt you if that's what you're afraid of." He says dully.

Aziraphale's posture relaxes a little bit, and it's then that he notices the folder Zarathustra is carrying under his arm. "Then why are you here?"

"Since you were cast out of Heaven rather hurriedly last week, the Archangels wanted to make it more official."

Zarathustra takes the folder out from under his arm and opens it, out of which he gives Aziraphale three things.

A pink slip of paper.

"Your notice of exile,"

A white envelope.

"your Celestial Wages,"

And an official looking document.

"and a form promising that you will not be bothered ever again." He conjures a fountain pen out of thin air, then hands the form and the pen to Aziraphale. "Just sign at the bottom. You will find that all the Archangel's signatures are present."

Aziraphale reads over the form, which does indeed promise that Head Office will no longer make an effort to contact, visit, or keep an eye on him from now on. Satisfied that there don't appear to be any loopholes, he signs the form against the countertop, then hands the form and the pen back to Zarathustra. "Is that all?" He asks.

"Not quite, actually"

Zarathustra tucks the folder back under his arm, the pen now gone, and straightens up to his full hight. "Heaven also wished for me to tell you that your position as free agent has been taken by someone else."

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows in surprise. "Really? Who?"

Zarathustra pushes his glasses back up his nose.

"Me."

Aziraphale is shocked. Of all the people to replace him, Zarathustra is the last person he would have thought of. 

"You volunteered?"

"Chosen."

"Ah. By Gabriel I'm assuming."

"The Almighty actually, but Gabriel was the one who told me."

Aziraphale tries to ignore the fact that the Almighty talked to an angel just to tell him he was the new angel on Earth, when She hasn't even answered _his_ call during the Apocalypse-that-wasn't.

"So will Crowley be replaced too?"

"And fired properly, yes."

"Do you-?"

"No, I don't know who his replacement is. All I know is that I'm supposed to meet them in St. James Park at three, and you will receive a memo about their identity in a few days." He replies tersely, clearly irritated. He hates being asked questions.

Aziraphale fiddles with the edges of his waistcoat in the awkward silence that follows, and waits for Zarathustra to cool down a bit, before asking timidly, "So... we should just pretend that this interaction never happened then, shall we?"

Zarathustra gives a curt nod, then turns and walks out of the bookshop, and begins making his way to St. James Park, scowling all the way, hoping against hope that whoever this demon is, he isn't as annoying as the disposables.

Aziraphale stands frozen in the bookshop, thrown into shock over what just happened. Power Zarathustra came into his bookshop, and told him that he wasn't going to be bothered anymore, that he's been replaced. He's free.

"I have to tell Crowley."

**.**

Meanwhile, about ten minutes away, a being of rather demonic origins is climbing the stairs to Crowley's flat, a grubby folder tucked under his arm. It seems strange that he should not take the stairs, but when you are cooped up in Hell all day, a place where stretching your legs is physically impossible, it feels nice getting out all of that pent up energy for once in his 3,000 years of living down stairs.

This is Redgie, one of the younger, low ranking demons of Hell, and right now he is three flights of stairs away from giving Crowley some much needed information.

Crowley is currently watering the plants, completely oblivious to the fact that his life is about to be changed forever, wondering whether their Head Offices will really never bother them again. He doesn't really expect Hell to keep that promise, and Heaven isn't exactly good at letting things go. Too focused on their reputation, or whatever.

The demon is just about to let loose on hydrangea bush that's looking a bit droopy, when there's a knock on the door.

Crowley jumps and whirls around, spray bottle held up defensively in front of him, his teeth bared.

The knock comes again, and Crowley relaxes a little bit. If it's a demon coming to end him he doesn't think they would bother to knock. Hastur and Ligur hadn't.

Still wary, Crowley walks cautiously to the front door, puts on his glasses, and hesitates for a fraction of a second before he opens the door.

To say that Crowley is surprised to see a fellow demon at his door is an understatement. It isn't Hastur, thank Someone, but that still doesn't numb the fear that is now pulsing through him like an electrical surge. He keeps it cool though, leaning against the doorway, trying to look unimpressed.

Of course Crowley nows Redgie, not very well you understand, but he nows him. Redgie is the only demon who has ever shown any amount of friendliness towards him over the centuries, so as a result, Crowley has been friendly towards Redgie, but that doesn't mean that Crowley likes him in any sense of the word, or vice versa. And just because Redgie is nice for a demon, doesn't mean that he isn't as capable of tempting humans and causing some minor chaos, because he is.

They stare at each other for a long moment.

"What are you doing here?" Crowley asks, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably.

Redgie holds up the the grubby and stained folder. "Lord Beelzebub was in a bit of a hurry to kick you out of Hell last week, so they sent me up to tie up some loose ends."

Crowley gulps. He does not like the sound of that. "Loose ends?" He asks, voice shaking.

Redgie opens up the folder and a few flies fly out of it. "Yeah, just some basic things, you know. Uh, here's your notice of unemployment."

Redgie hands him a crumpled pink slip of paper.

"Last months Wages."

A grubby white envelope.

"And a form promising that you won't be bothered." He hands the form to Crowley along with a ballpoint pen, which he takes, completely dumbfounded.

Crowley just stares at the form, unable to comprehend what he just heard. No more visits from Hell? No calls, no memos, nothing? This can't be possible. It has to be a joke.

Redgie clears his throat awkwardly. "Uhh, you're supposed to sign it."

Crowley snaps out of it, and looks up at Redgie with tears in his eyes. Thank Someone for sun glasses. "Y- you're joking right? This is- I mean..." He looks back at the form again. "This is serious right?" He asks timidly, his voice cracking slightly on the last word. _Damnit Crowley keep it together._

Thankfully Redgie doesn't comment on it. "As far as I know, yeah. Completely serious. You'll find Lord Beelzebub's and all the other high ranking demon's signatures on the back."

Crowley turns the form over. Redgie is right. All the signatures are there. Still not quite convinced, Crowley reads through the form just to make sure. True to Redgie's word, it does seem to be genuine, and there aren't any loopholes that he can see, so he reads through it a second time, then a third. Still nothing.

Crowley signs the form without a second thought, than hands it back to Redgie along with the pen which vanishes, and puts the form back in the folder.

"Are we done?" Asks Crowley aggressively. He feels like he's about to cry, and he really doesn't want another demon to see that.

"One more thing." Redgie tucks the folder back under his arm. "Lord Beelzebub also wanted me to tell you that your position as demon on Earth has been taken by someone else. Since you've been fired."

Crowley feels his heart sink into his stomach. "It's not Hastur is it?"

"No," he says with a chuckle, "it's me."

Crowley loosens up a bit. "Oh. Well. Congratulations." He says, not entirely sure whether he means it or not.

"Welp, I better get going." He turns to leave.

"Wait!"

Redgie stops and looks back.

"What about Aziraphale? What'll happen to him?"

"He's going through the same procedure."

It takes a surprising amount of self control to stop himself from jumping for joy. _We're free!_ "Who's replacing him?"

Redgie shrugs. "I don't know, that's why I'm meeting them in St. James Park." He looks at his watch. "Speaking of which I have to go or I'll be late."

Redgie turns and walks down the hall without another word, taking the steps two at a time, and as he walks towards St. James, he hopes against hope that whoever this angel is, he isn't an upright bastard like Gabriel.

Crowley slams the door to his flat as soon as Redgie is out of sight, and collapses on the floor, not sure whether to laugh or cry. Free. They are both free.

"I have to tell angel."


	2. The Mortifying Ordeal of Being Free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even though Aziraphale and Crowley are finally free of their Head Offices, it's hard to suddenly be without something when it's been there for millenia. Even if it's not something you should miss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S ANGST TIME
> 
> sorry...

Crowley is still slouched on the floor, his face buried in his hands, tears leaking through his fingers; and he's not sure why.

 _We're free. I should be happy. I_ am _happy. So why am I-?_

Crowley growls in frustration and angrily tries to wipe his tears away, but they just keep coming, and he can't stop them, when his mobile rings in the next room. The demon rolls his eyes as more tears cascade down his cheeks, and his phone appears in his hand, (because he expects it to) and looks at the caller ID.

"Aziraphale." He picks up and puts the phone to his ear. "Hello."

"Crowley, it's me."

A smirk tugs at the demon's lips. " I know it's you."

Aziraphale clears his throat nervously. "Oh, right. Uh- listen. We need to talk. Something's just happened."

"An angel came to your door and told you we're free?"

"Well, yes actually. I'm assuming you went through something similar?"

Crowley wipes his eyes, which are full blown yellow behind his glasses. "Yeah."

Aziraphale squeals on the other end, and the demon thinks it's just about the cutest thing he's ever heard. "You okay an-?" A sob escapes his mouth.

"Crowley? Is every alright?"

Crowley sniffles, and when he answers his voice is thick. "Can I teleport into the bookshop?"

Aziraphale furrows his brow concernedly. "Well yes, but-"

There's a burst of demonic energy as Crowley appears on front of him, his mobile hanging by his side, glasses off, looking utterly miserable.

Aziraphale hangs up the phone and cups Crowley's face in his hands, feeling the wetness there. "Oh Crowley," he says softly. "What's the matter?"

Crowley's bottom lip quivers as his phone drops to the floor, then he falls forward into the angel's arms, twining his own around his waist, and starts sobbing into the crook of his neck.

Aziraphale is still for a moment, shocked by the sudden outburst from his demon. He hadn’t seen him like this since their night after the Ritz. Aziraphale fully realizes what is happening, and wraps an arm around the demon’s shoulders, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades, his other hand sinking into his auburn hair. 

He kisses his temple. “It’s alright,” he whispers, his lips brushing the snake tattoo, making Crowley shiver. “Everything is going to be okay now. We’re free.”

Crowley stops crying and looks up at him at that last statement, his eyes wide, his mouth hanging slightly open.

Aziraphale smiles and wipes a tear away with his thumb. “Hello Crowley.”

A few moments pass in silence, then Crowley buries his face in the angel’s chest and starts crying again.

Aziraphale’s face falls, and he presses a kiss into his hair. “Oh my dear boy, come here.” The angel takes the arm not wrapped around his shoulders and hooks it under his knees, lifting him up in a bridal carry.

Crowley whimpers at the disorientating feeling. 

Aziraphale shushes him and kisses his forehead, “Shh, you’re alright,” and sits down with the demon in his lap in his cozy armchair in the backroom.

Crowley’s hands latch onto the angel’s coat lapels and nuzzles his chest, feeling just slightly pathetic. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out.

Aziraphale pulls him closer to his body in a comforting hold. “You have nothing to be sorry for, just let it all out, and we can talk when you’re ready.”

Crowley nods sluggishly and continues crying, though it’s more subdued, which Aziraphale takes as a good sign.

For the half hour that they’re there, the angel keeps rubbing his back and pressing kisses into his temple, whispering soothing nothings into his hair, rocking him slightly from side to side in an effort to calm him down.

At some points during that time, it seems like Crowley is starting to pull himself together, and calm down, then more tears spill out and he is crying again.

Finally the tears start to taper off for real, and Crowley’s grip on the angel’s lapels loosens into a gentle hold, taking deep breaths. Eventually he goes quiet and his body slumps into the angel. 

Aziraphale waits a few moments to see if Crowley is done, before he speaks. 

“Are you alright now, darling?”

Crowley nods which translates into a nuzzle into the angel’s chest and he sniffles. “Yeah, yeah I’m alright.” His voice is rough and garbled from crying, but it sounds lighter, like he has taken a weight off his chest.

Aziraphale conjures a soft tartan handkerchief and wipes the tears from Crowley’s available cheek, and the demon lifts his head so that Aziraphale can wipe the other one. Once finished Crowley rests his head against his chest again, listening to his heart beat, and the angel miracles away the handkerchief.

A moment passes and Crowley smiles, his eyes still closed. “Tartan? Really angel?”

The angel grins at the old joke. “Tartan is stylish.” He says fondly.

Crowley chuckles lightly and opens his eyes to look up at the angel.

They’re still full blown yellow, but they don’t look distressed anymore. Now they are full of mirth, but there is still a little sadness underneath that.

Aziraphale smiles down at him, then his face falls into a worried look again. “Are you sure you’re alright?” He asks, stroking his cheek.

Crowley’s smile falls and he leans back into his chest. “I’m fine, angel, just tired.”

Aziraphale nods in understanding and watches him for a moment. “Do you want to talk about what made you so distressed?”

Crowley frowns and buries his face in his shoulder. “It’s just so hard to believe that we’re free. I mean actually free.”

Aziraphale smiles. “I’m honestly finding it a little hard to believe myself.”

“Ngk,” is all Crowley says.

Comfortable silence passes between them for a moment while Crowley gathers his thoughts, Aziraphale waiting patiently, still rubbing soothing circles into his back.

“It’s just so overwhelming,” he says quietly.

Aziraphale looks at him curiously, not saying anything, but he squeezes him slightly closer in understanding, and to show that he’s listening. 

“I mean, we’ve been taking orders from our sides for 6,000 years, and now we aren’t.” He sniffles. “I just feel so lost,” he whimpers. “And I don’t know what to do. I feel like I’ve Fallen all over again.”

Aziraphale steers his face up gently by the chin so he can look into his eyes. “You haven’t Fallen again, my love.”

Crowley’s face is that of anguish, the face of someone who wants something to be true, but can’t quite believe it. “I don’t belong anywhere anymore angel, neither of us do.”

Aziraphale cups his cheek. “You belong to me, and here, on Earth. And so do I.”

Crowley wraps his arms around the angel’s neck and buries his face in the crook of his neck. He nuzzles at him, inhaling his scent. Parchment and leather, earl grey and coco, and something just slightly ethereal. 

“I love you, Aziraphale,” he breaths.

Aziraphale smiles and slips his arms around his waist. “I love you too, my dear Crowley.”

Crowley extracts himself from the angel’s neck and gazes into his eyes, his slit pupils expanded to soft orbs, a mad grin on his face.

Aziraphale returns the look, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, there’s something else there. Sadness perhaps? Shame?

Crowley cups the angel’s cheek in his hand, his brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Aziraphale’s grin tapers off into a sort of defeated look and sighs heavily, and now it’s his turn to bury his face in Crowley’s neck. 

Crowley runs his fingers through the angel’s platinum curls. “Angel?”

Aziraphale lays his head on his shoulder, his eyes looking into the middle distance. “I miss them, in a weird way.” He admits quietly, a touch of shame and anger and sadness in his voice.

“That’s totally normal, angel.”

Aziraphale suddenly looks angry and lifts his head to look at him. “But I shouldn’t!” He half shouts. “I shouldn’t miss them. They treated me horribly, they tried to destroy me and the entire world, and I miss them!” 

Crowley looks at him sadly, and pulls him back into his arms. 

“Why do I miss them?”

The way the angel asks that question eats him up inside. He sounds so defeated, and small, and lost. The demon kisses the crown of his head and rubs back, thinking.

“Well…” he says eventually. “They’ve been there for more than 6,000 years, so has Hell, so it’s kind of strange to be without them.”

The angel doesn’t reply, but he nods.

Crowley tilts his face up. “And that’s normal. It’s fine that you miss them, you’ll get over it eventually, and so will I. It will just take some time for us to get used to it.”

The angel stares at him for a moment, then grins wickedly. “Some time?” He asks teasingly.

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Alright. A long time.”

Aziraphale stares into Crowley’s molten gold eyes that he has loved for millenia, and cups the sides of Crowley’s neck in his hands, and kisses him.

Crowley inhales sharply in surprise, but he leans into it a moment later, moving his lips in tandem with the angel’s, letting him in with a gasp when he feels his tongue glide across his bottom lip. 

Crowley arranges himself so he’s straddling the angel’s lap without breaking the kiss, his arms twining around his neck, Aziraphale’s hands settling on his arse, which he gives a gentle squeeze, making the demon hum into the kiss, which echoes in the angel’s throat deliciously. 

After a few minutes of well deserved snogging, Crowley breaks the kiss, leaning their foreheads together, still close enough that their lips are brushing, sharing each other’s breath. 

Aziraphale’s hands travel up to the demon’s waist just as Crowley opens in his eyes. Aziraphale’s breath catches in his throat. He looks so beautiful like this, his cheeks and ears all blushed pink, his usually slitted pupils blown wide, leaving only a wedding band of gold, the dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks, and he’s the only one who gets to see him like this. And he revels in it.

The demon smirks through the embarrassment. He’s not used to being stared at like this. “See something you like angel?” He asks a little nervously, but trying not to and failing.

The angel’s browl draws up in a look of utter adoration. “Yes.” He says wonderingly.

Crowley’s blush deepens, but can’t seem to break away from the angel’s intense and loving gaze. “Oh,” he says, his hands fidgeting with the angel’s coat lapels, his eyes resolutely looking down at his lap.

Aziraphale chuckles at how flustered Crowley is. He finds it adorable. The demon has no problem with snogging and having his arse kneaded, but he becomes a blustering mess at little things; a kiss to his temple, a compliment about his appearance, or a soft look across the table.

The angel then tilts his face up so he can see him properly. “In all seriousness though, are you sure you’re alright?”

Crowley gives him a blank look, then nods heavily. “I...I think so. I’m still a little overwhelmed I think.”

Aziraphale traces Crowley’s jaw with a finger. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel a little less overwhelmed, my dear?”

Crowley thinks for a moment, then looks up shyly. “Read to me? For a bit?”

A wide smile spreads across the angel’s face and a book appears in his hand. “Of course, love.”

Crowley smiles and kisses his cheek. “Thank you, angel,” then settles back against him, as the angel starts reading A Room With A View.

As the angel continued to read, running his fingers through the demon’s hair, Crowley contemplated some things. Yes, it will be strange being left alone from now on. There will still be moments of fear and uneasiness. Days where they feel like they are still being watched. Where they expect to be punished for everything they’ve done, that one of Them is going to show up and kill them. Yes, it will take some time to get used to it, but, Crowley reasons as he presses his face into Aziraphale, as long as his angel is here, he will be able to get through it, and he smiles contentedly as he drifts off to sleep to the comforting sound of the angel’s voice. 


	3. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their visits with Aziraphale and Crowley, Zarathustra and Redgie meet for the first time in St. James Park. It goes exactly as expected.

Not being used to this much walking, Redgie chooses to take a cab to St. James. It makes him ten minutes late. 

Zarathustra, on the other hand, is twelve minutes early. He looks around the park, and tries to See the demon, but it’s just a sea of humans. He scrunches up his nose in disgust, but mostly in annoyance. He hates waiting. 

In the 22 minutes he waits for the demon, he walks once around the park, trying his best to keep his distance from the humans by six feet, stands by the pond to watch the ducks, walks around the park again, then sits on a bench, incidentally, the same bench that Crowley and Aziraphale have been meeting at for close on 200 years. So it’s no wonder that when Zarathustra sits down, he is immediately enveloped in all encompassing love. 

Zarathustra feels as if he is intruding on something private and moves to the next bench.

The cabby let's Redgie off at the entrance to St. James, and he looks at his watch. It’s 3:10. The demon doesn’t bother with a tip, and performs a demonic miracle, ensuring that the cab's AC won’t work for a week as an act of revenge, then walks into the park to find the Angel.

He eventually comes across a bench with only one occupant dressed in a pale blue suit. Redgie stops short and the occupant looks up at him and dips his head with a look that reads, _Are you him?_

Redgie tries not to grimace, and nods back. _He looks like a complete wanker._

The Angel slowly tilts his head back then he turns his head away.

Redgie really does grimace now. _Bloody hell_ , he thinks exasperatedly, then tries to pull his face into a neutral look, and sits next to the wanker. That’s what he’s calling him from now on, even if he does learn his name.

The Angel glances in his direction again, then his eyes dart down to the folder covered in mildew under the demon’s arm and turns to look at him, and pulls a face.

The demon is tall with a broad build, and grubby. His jeans are faded at the knees and torn at the hems, his black shirt is discolored in some places, and his open jacket is torn and disheveled from what looks like decades of use and not being washed properly. (Or not at all). The demon’s hair is thin and brown, and almost falls to his shoulders in a messy mullet.

Redgie looks right back, noticing his disgust over his state of dress, and looks the Angel up and down. The wanker is wearing an expensive three piece light blue suit, a white stiff collared shirt, brown leather shoes, and a black tie. His hair is shaved on the sides and brown, the rest is blonde and swept back from his forehead. A pair of glasses perched perfectly on the bridge of his perfect nose.

The demon inhales sharply, then his lips pull back, revealing a mouth of sharp teeth, his animalistic eyes flashing angrily. _They paired me with a Power?! Do they have any idea how powerful those are? They must do, it's in the bloody name._

The wanker gives him a disparaging look over his glasses, then shakes his head and looks straight ahead. “You’re the _demon_?” He says the word like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Redgie growls. “The _name_ is Redgie. Wanker,” he says with just as much venom.

The Angel’s brow furrows. There’s actually an indent because he’s done it so much, and Redgie refrains from sneering over it, and just keeps grimacing.

The wanker’s ice blue eyes look in his direction, (or are they brown?) (he can’t tell) full of cold Angelic furry, and Redgie leans back a bit. “Well, I would say it’s nice to meet you, but we both know that’s a lie.” He mutters menacingly. “And it’s not _wanker_ , it’s Power Zarathustra. Don’t forget it.” He looks back at the ponde.

Redgie looks away, suppressing a shiver, and tells himself not to be afraid. “Will do.” He glances back at Zarathustra. _“Wanker,”_ he whispers.

Zarathustra closes his eyes, trying his best not to lose his temper. _I swear to our Lord the Almighty, if he doesn't_ shut up _I am going to break something._

Zarathustra opts not to do that, and instead gives him a shock of grace, which makes him jerk in pain. He tries not to smile. He shouldn’t even be doing things like that anyway, using his powers around the humans. Not that they will notice anything, but it’s better to lay low, then risk being found out.

Redgie shifts uncomfortably after the shock and moves to the end of the bench. He’s going to feel that for at least a week.

He pulls his jacket closer to his body, and sets the folder in his lap so he can hug himself. He wants to pay the Angel back but he doesn’t want to make him more angry than he already is. He can feel it coming off his body in waves, and he decides to act diplomatically for the rest of the meeting. They still have important things they need to talk about.

His eyes dart to the Angel and he opens his mouth, but the wanker gets to it first.

“Anyway, I didn’t come here to be insulted by a demon. We have things to discuss.” Zarathustra takes the folder out from under his arm and holds it out to him. Redgie takes it and hands over his own folder. 

Zarathustra looks at it and grimaces. “Are all of your office supplies this _dirty_?” He asks as he miracles away the mildew and rot.

Redgie opens his own folder and smirks. “Pretty much.”

“Ugh.” 

Zarathustra opens Redgie’s folder and looks through the papers. Along with a photo of him, there is a list of his qualifications and strengths; a basic informational resume. Their Head Offices had thought it would be best to know as much about the other as possible so they would be more prepared if problems arise. A good idea, in Zarathustra’s opinion, though it meant that the demon got to know things about him as well. He will learn to live with it though.

Redgie looks through Zarathustra’s folder, and is vaguely impressed. It’s not everyday you meet an Angel who’s an expert with a spear, or every weapon for that matter. He suddenly finds himself wondering where he keeps the spear, and he makes a mental note to try not to get on his bad side.

Zarathustra finds himself making a similar mental note when he discovers that the demon used to work in the Department of Infernal Fire, and that his Hell Fire can burn an angel to a crisp from the inside out, in seconds. He swallows compulsively, his throat clicking.

Redgie notices and smirks. _He must have gotten to the section about previous job._ Lord Beelzebub put it there as an intimidation tactic, and it seems to have worked. Redgie makes another note to tell them the good news. 

He continues looking through the wanker’s resume, when he freezes. It looks like the Angels decided to pull an intimidation tactic as well. Zarathustra fought in the First War, and killed many of what would have been powerful demons, once even more powerful angels. Redgie’s eyes widen and he looks at the Angel, to be met with a smug grin so wide there has to be some sort of distortion to fit it all on his face.

“You like my resume?” He asks smugly.

Redgie realizes his mouth is hanging open and he clamps it shut. “I could ask you the same thing.” He says, trying to sneer, but it doesn’t feel right on his face so he looks back at the folder, and he hears the Angel laugh.

He slams the folder shut and puts it on the bench between them. _Wanker._

Zarathustra takes his folder back and vanishes it, then hands back Redgie’s, who does the same thing.

They sit there in comfortable silence, Zarathustra’s leg crossed over the other, looking rather pleased with himself.

Redgie slouches into the bench and scrolls through his phone on various social media sights.

One of the ducks who has grown accustomed to Aziraphale and Crowley’s visits, notices the new angelic and demonic visitors, and is vaguely offended that they didn’t bring any bread. The duck decides to pester them the next time they stop by.

Redgie eventually looks up from his phone at the Zarathustra. “I’ve taken up residency in a flat in London.” 

Zarathustra looks over at him for a brief moment then looks away. “I own an antique shop in Soho.”

Redgie nods, interested. “What kinds of antiques do you sell?”

“Weapons.”

 _Well_. _I'm not going there if I can help it_. “You got a licence for that, wanker?” He asks smirking, using the snide remark to cover his growing trepidation over the Angel.

Zarathustra smiles the first genuine smile he’s made in this whole meeting, and Redgie feels his chest tighten in a way he’s not sure is uncomfortable or not.

“If I didn’t have a licence I wouldn’t have an antique shop, _demon_.” He still says it like that, like the word burns his throat.

Redgie looks at him incredulously. “You could just use my name, you know.”

Zarathustra’s smile drops and is replaced by a haughty look. “I’m not using your name if you’re calling me wanker.”

“But you are a wanker.” He says, chuckling, and claps Zarathustra on the shoulder.

Zarathustra looks at him like he just threw mud in his face. 

Redgie stares at him for a moment, then turns away. “No touching, got it.”

Zarathustra looks away slowly, then watches as a black swan attacks a small boy for throwing bread at it’s head. 

“Your resume said you have a spear,” Redgie says, suddenly. “Where do you keep it?”

"If I told you where I keep it, you would know where it is. I’m not falling for your tricks, demon.”

Redgie checks his text messages.

1 new from Beelz.

“That’s fair I suppose,” he mutters absentmindedly. Lord Beelzebub wants him to come back down to Hell to give a report on how his mission went. He gives Beelzebub the ok, then stands up.

Zarathustra looks up at him hopefully. “Leaving, are you?”

Redgie sighs. “Yup.”

“Finally.” Zarathustra stands up and cracks his knuckles, then he and Redgie walk out of the park together, going their separate ways once they reach the pavement. The ducks watch them go, wondering how long it will take these two to figure it out.

Redgie gets another cab to Hell’s main entrance, takes the escalator down, and realizes just how crowded it is down here. And hot. And smelly. And Redgie thinks that maybe Earth won’t be so bad after all, just as long as he doesn’t have to talk to that wanker ever again. He's going to feel his grace in his body for quite awhile, but he doesn’t bother with getting it checked on.

Power Zarathustra goes to a secluded alleyway so he can teleport to Heaven without being seen, and notices just how empty it is. And cold. And all in all just really unpleasant. He felt exposed, vulnerable; he doesn’t like that feeling. Perhaps Earth really is better after all, just as long as Redg- that demon doesn’t touch him again. He’s going to smell like burning sulfur and rot for at least a week, and he doesn’t look forward to it. 

He doesn’t bother miracling the stench out.

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfic has been in my head for about a year, and now that I finally have an ao3 I can finally get it out there.
> 
> This fanfic has multiple chapters, and will be updated whenever I feel the motivation to continue. 
> 
> The tags and rating will be updated as we go.


End file.
